


If Not for the Strangler, or Seven Other Ways Joffrey Baratheon Could Have Died

by HarmonicFriction



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Loss of Virginity, Non-Consensual Violence, Sadism, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3039785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmonicFriction/pseuds/HarmonicFriction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Joffrey had not been poisoned at his own wedding, how might he have died? Seven slightly different Joffreys. Seven unique outcomes. Seven short, grim stories. All alternate universe. Book and show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tobiume](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobiume/gifts).



Lady Sansa is beautiful, yes, but oh so boring. She giggles and blushes at his every word. This is pleasing at first yet soon irks him deeply. At one point, his stallion rears up and Joffrey has to shout at it to behave which makes Sansa scream.  _"Are you all right"_ she enquires shrilly. _"My prince! My prince?"_ Joffrey insists he is fine. Inside, he smolders. The fuss she makes reminds him of the way his mother fawns over him when he falls, moans too loudly, or acquires a scratch. Only Mother gets to worry; a proper betrothed should be admiring of Prince Joffrey's comely features and bravery, not squealing over him like he'll break. It is no matter, though. Joffrey has wine and lots of it. He wants to enjoy the afternoon for as long as he can because his father instructed him to be polite and behave or else, so he drinks long and deep from his leather wineskin.

They leave the horses to explore caves and trails. He continues to drink, offering Sansa the pouch when he can remember to do so. She gets prettier with every swallow, though finding footing becomes far more difficult. Joffrey's face feels nicely warm in the sunlight and his thoughts swim. No wonder his father has to be drunk to tolerate his mother. This is truly an improvement. Sometimes Joffrey hates social affairs. He enjoys the dancing and the rich food, but hates feeling like no one is interested in him. He is impatient for the good part of every evening. And talking is so tiresome. Yet now, conversation is uncomplicated. He has no real need to hear what Sansa has to say and he chats to her easily about King's Landing. He tells her how much she'll like it, how beautiful she'll look in the gown he will choose for her to wear when they are wed in the throne room.

Sansa seems pleased by this. She begins to smile more and shriek less. Her lips are mauve from the wine. Joffrey wonders if kissing her will please him, if he'll like it when they're married and he has to put his parts inside her and do the bedding ceremony Mother has told him about. Joffrey has kissed a girl before. Recently, in fact. There was dancing for his sister's Name Day and he caught a courtier's daughter by the waist and spun her round and round and round. Then he kissed her cheek. She seemed pleased by it, even when he stole a kiss from her on the lips behind the curtains while his mother and father were busy fighting. The girl was enthralled, obviously, but it wasn't enough for Joffrey so he bit her hard on the chin. Her whimper shot spirals of warmth throughout his groin. Joffrey wonders how Sansa will react when he bites her, what sound she'll make if he slaps her bottom and twists her hair. If she doesn't please him he can get a new wife, just like he gets new toys and weapons when he outgrows the old.

He is thinking about this when they hear a curious  _snaking_ sound through the trees. He goes off to find the source of the noise, Sansa on his heels. What they find next is pathetic and hysterical: The Stark sister is pretend-fighting with a boy who has red hair like Sansa's except his makes him look pink-faced and stupid. After a moment, Joff learns he is the butcher's boy. He should respect Sansa's sister because that is what Father would want but it is difficult. Her sister looks like an ugly little pony. She has a long face and horsey eyes and a jutting jaw. This one doesn't  _act_ like a little sister, Joffrey decides. Myrcella is an empty-headed twat whose only use will be getting fucked so she can deliver sons to some lord or king but she at least has the good sense to act like a female. She would  _never_ swordfight, least of all with a commoner's child.

Joffrey's heart pounds. He's thinking as straight as he's walking. The wine makes him stumble slightly and words pour out of his mouth so easily. He wants to show off for his betrothed. She likes him well enough but she should absolutely  _adore_ him, she should bow down and kiss his boots. She should adore him, and she should fear him, too. He'll show her how  _real_ sword-fighting's done.

Without a plan, he etches a red scratch in the butcher boy's face and a small, thin streak of blood bubbles up. Joff's grin widens, all pursed, thick lips and flashing white teeth. He loves blood, simply loves it and he loves seeing people wounded and humiliated even more. The butcher's boy groans and shudders. It doesn't make Joffrey as excited as the court girl did though it's fun all the same. He hears Sansa and her sister protesting his actions. He ignores them. His thoughts slosh in his head. His own intentions are unclear to him. He only wants to have a little excitement. That is all he ever wishes for. And this boy needs a lesson. He shouldn't be playing like a baby with little girls.

And then,  _pain._ Joffrey's head is struck from behind. When he whips around, that ugly little bitch of a girl is glowering at him through her shit-hued curtains of hair. Sansa is shouting, urging them to stop but Joffrey thinks,  _Not a chance._ This sister of Sansa's does not act like a girl and so Joffrey doesn't treat her like one. He strikes her against the shoulder with his sword. Unfortunately, he's fumbled and only hits her with the smooth side. She charges him and pushes him to the dirt.  _My new waistcoat!_ Joffrey thinks, absolutely horrified, but she's on him now, pulling his curls and slapping at him. He tears at her, lips curling into a hideous expression of loathing. When he finally flips her over on her back he laughs with cold malice, straddling her and raising Lion's Tooth high above his head. He's going to bash her brain in and then slice it like a piece of salt pork. Enthralled, his middle warms and his legs quake.

In his ears, there is the sound of growling and lots of it, too. He has no time to wonder what kind of monsters are upon them because the next second, he is attacked and thrown off Sansa's sister. He topples to the grass and sputters, the wind knocked clean out of him. When he opens his eyes, he is nose to nose with one of the Starks' giant dogs. Joffrey's mouth hangs open in a silent, choked scream and the wolf grabs his coat with its fangs. He catches his breath right then and begins to cry and scream, tears flowing and feet beating the forest floor. "No, no, NO!" he screeches as the wolf takes a chunk out of his shoulder. His gorgeous velvet waistcoat wrenches apart, allowing for a mass of dark red to flow through the flapping pieces of flesh. Joffrey's screams become howls. "Help! Help! Help!" The gigantic dog tears at his arm. Blood seeps through him and his face pales, his body pulsing with hurt and horror.

"Nymeria!  _Nymeria!"_ The little bratty cunt repeats the nonsense word but finally, the beast desists.

Joffrey's green eyes are wild. He scrabbles to sit up. The words are difficult to find now. "You-filthy-cunting-whore-I'll-I'll have you strung up-up- by your teeth and, and, and hanged until you rot!" he manages to get out, cringing and holding his arm. The blood is flowing fast and the world is spinning. The big dog sits by the Stark sister's side, cocking its head. Yes, he'll kill the girl first and then the dog? He'll have it cut up and cooked for the peasants, just as soon as Mother knows what happened to him!

"No!" the sister shouts. "No, you won't! It's your fault! You did it!"

"Joffrey, shh, my prince, be quiet, I'll send for help," Sansa says, dropping to his side and tousling his curls, cooing and carrying on like a little hen. She is crying. What does  _she_ have to cry about!? Joffrey grits his teeth. The pain is excruciating. "Let me see your arm, now, my poor prince-"

"You're no maester! You are not my mother! Go and get help if you're going to do it! AND DON'T TOUCH ME! _"_ he spits, trying to hide his face. She can't see him bawling. She simply can't.

Sansa gasps, apparently startled. "My prince?" she says, and she has the audacity to lean in a second time.

Joffrey grips her arm with his good hand and squeezes with all his might, digging his nails in. "Get  _HELP!"_ he screams and pulls her in. "Get help or I'll deflower you with my sword, you fucking whore!" Sansa gives a cry of shock. He lets her go and she falls backward, whimpering.

Her sister gives another cry. "Don't talk to her like that!"

He has no time to enjoy the sound of whimpering, shrieking girls because a second wolf is upon him now. He can't see much before the end but he notes in a flash of teeth and fur and claw that she is light in color with large amber eyes. She does not bother with limbs. She sets to work snapping his neck with her large mouth and shaking him as if he is a rabbit. Joffrey has no screaming left inside his throat. Blood spills and tendons pull out like the waving tentacles of some sea creature before they snap in a messy explosion of muscle and skin. She stops, leaving him just barely alive.

When Joffrey tries to yell, more blood flows over his lips and coats his teeth. The yell comes out, but interestingly it comes from the hole in his throat, burbling and gurgling. Joffrey's vision clouds over. The last thing he sees are the sisters cowering, holding their giant dogs in their arms, eyes wide and mouths open. The dogs are covered in his blood. His head spins, his handsome face turns ashen and he fades off into a dark place.

The last thing he hears is the horse-faced Stark bitch whispering as she pats the light-colored wolf's head. "Good girl, Lady," she says gravely, "good girl."


	2. Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The riot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for kudos and for reading my story. I'm quite excited to post more of this.

_2._

* * *

 

 

 

Sniffling, Princess Myrcella is escorted into the bobbing little boat.  The High Septon says a prayer and King Joffrey's sister is sent out to sea, her round face a pink mess of tears between her long curls of white-blonde hair.  Tommen weeps and Mother covers her sobbing mouth, waving.  Even Sansa looks somber.  But Joffrey is glad.  Myrcella was a nuisance and she will serve him better out of his sight.  He sneers and keeps his head averted.  He hopes to never see her again.

Joffrey already gave his younger sister a going away present, one he is quite certain will not serve her well in Dorne.  Joffrey laughs out loud now, imagining her fate when her future  husband (whoever he may be) goes to give her his seed and discovers she is not a maiden.

Joffrey made damn  _sure_ she wasn't one last night in Myrcella's chambers when he woke her up with a candle to her cheek and his hand tugging at the bottom of her nightclothes.  He pressed, and pulled, and pried until he crammed his hard shaft into Myrcella's tiny hole. Her startled squeak was lovely.    _"_ _If you scream out loud, I'll burn you,"_ he had smiled, and grunted into her mouth.  Myrcella did nothing but lie there, green eyes watching and fearful, body obedient to his touches.  The candle holder went to the bedside table, and both of Joffrey's hands gripped the pillows behind her head instead as he moved around inside her. When it was over he shouted gaily and shot a load of hot wetness between her legs, then rocked his little sister to sleep, spent.  When he pulled out, he examined the blood, both disgusted and fascinated.

Like everything and everyone else in this world, Myrcella is his forever. 

Proudly, he wonders now if he got her with child as Mother had said Myrcella bloomed  _“early”_. If so, it will be his first child of many, he decides.  He does not care whether it lives or dies inside her though he wishes he could know the answer right now.  All of the prospects greatly amuse him.  He considers whether they'll kill her right away in Dorne for such a thing, or torture her for hours.  He hopes for the latter and his cock grows hard even now at the sheer thought of her shrieks and hollers.  When he sees Mother looking at him curiously, he molds his face into an imitation of despair before leading the procession back to the Red Keep.  

_Thank Gods that is all done.  I have never been so bored in my life,_ Joffrey thinks, sending a last glance out toward the dark water.  Myrcella rocks in the boat much like she rocked underneath him last night.   _Farewell, sister.  Farewell and worst of luck to you._  Joffrey chuckles as he walks, the Hound's shadow spreading over him, blocking the sunlight.  Sansa strides to his side, and Mother and Tommen behind them.  No one knows what he has done, which makes it all the better. Joffrey has a secret, a mirthful and fantastic secret, and he is going to savor it for days. 

As much as Joffrey hates Myrcella, he cannot help but remember how good it felt to sit astride her, to dig his fingers into her hair and to thrust in and out as hard as he could.  He’s been thinking about it all morning.  It makes the thought of wedding Sansa much more pleasant but Joffrey is unsure if he can wait.  He almost thinks he can smell Sansa beside him in the humid heat, the faint mask of flowers lingering over a slightly sweet body odor.  Joffrey’s mouth waters, wondering how her smells will develop and change when she gets her blood.  For that, he is eager. 

Then, the pleasant feminine smell of Sansa’s gowns is overtaken by another odor, a foul one.  Fleabottom  _stinks_ and the people are ugly.  Pathetic and awful-looking, as awful as they smell.  The smell is shit and rotting food and dying livestock combined.  King Joffrey was advised that these people might raise a fuss today.  He was told they were all very hungry but he can see spoiled vegetables in carts and scattered pigeons.  _If they are so hungry,_ Joffrey thinks, _they could easily do something about it.  It is not my concern.  A king cannot fix everything._

“Make way!” shouts Joffrey’s Dog suddenly, his voice a guttural growl. “This is the king!  Move!  Budge!  To the side!”

Joffrey looks up, confused by the ruckus.  They are being surrounded by the poor, smelly people with stains on their teeth and dirty, outdated clothing.  Without thinking twice, Joffrey moves closer to the Hound but the Hound has been separated from him.  The gap is closing.  The people start to chant.  Their voices are one long, low droning buzz of hatred.  It takes Joffrey a moment to realize what they are saying.

“Hound!” he screams. “Do something!”  He can hear Mother shouting orders in the distance.

“You fuckers!” the Dog barks. “This is your king! Stand down!”  He unsheathes his sword yet this only appears to make them more furious.  They move closer together, locking arms and chanting, chanting darkly, anger on their faces and evil glittering in their beady eyes.  It happens in mere seconds. 

_“Kill the usurper.  Kill the usurper.  Kill the usurper.”_

“Try to kill me and I’ll make it so you never eat again!” Joffrey squawks.  The circle moves in.  The chanting continues.

_"Kill the usurper!"_ Joffrey isn't scared but he isn't at ease.  He tries to make out his party but he only sees Clegane's armor, slightly visible through a part in the crowd.

“Fuck this,” snarls the Hound and he cuts through the first layer.  There are screams and hisses as blood sprays and arms are hacked free from bodies.  The crowd twists and envelopes Joffrey as if they are embracing him in a bizarre group embrace.  

_Kill the usurper,_

_kill the usurper,_

_kill him, kill him, kill him._

A man grabs him first, a nasty and sweaty man with a curled smirk.  "Demon king," he says, "demon boy king!"   His hands tighten around King Joffrey's throat.  Another man joins in, kicking Joffrey in the knees.  Then more of them.  Women spit.  Children throw stones.  It feels like forever, though, like them joining,  it happens in seconds. 

Joffrey shrieks and kicks the second the hands leave his throat. "Unhand me!  Unhand me!"  The pain is immense. 

The crowd gasps and writhes as the Hound reaches the center and from a direction Joffrey cannot see, a knife sticks him straight in the gut.  Crying out, he falls to his knees and collapses to the filthy, dusty, cobblestone road.  Blood gathers, sopping up his white tunic, a red decoration.   The crowd cheers but that isn't all.  In a flash, two men grip Joffrey hard and fast and there is a wrenching sound, a terrible noise of bone breaking and splattering skin.  Searing, sick throbbing pulses through King Joffrey's body and with widening eyes (terrified Lannister eyes, the same color, same horror and gargantuan size of his little sister's last night in the candlelight) he realizes they have torn flesh from flesh.  One man raises King Joffrey's arm high above his head as though waving a flag.  The fingers crumple, and on them, silver rings flash in the hot sun. 

King Joffrey's screams mix with the crowd's and losing blood as his color drains quickly, he falls down in the dirt beneath the feet of the rioting peasants.  They leap on top of him, pillaging and ravaging him until the Hound slices his way through the people to see what is left of the short-lived ruler.

* * *

 

When the Kingsguard attempts to collect the pieces of King Joffrey Baratheon for the funeral, it is to no avail.  The major parts of him have been lost or misplaced like objects nobody ever cared much about, put to better use it seems in death than in life.  Only Cersei pets the mauled face, kisses the twisted lips, and caresses the gaping sockets where arms, legs and eyes used to live. 


	3. Scepter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey is given two prostitutes for his Name Day.

_3._

* * *

Joffrey's catlike eyes glisten like emeralds in the flickering candlelight.  The two women in his chambers smile, feigning innocence, and waiting for a command.  

When the red-haired whore had reached for Joffrey's private place, he'd recoiled.  Joffrey is still a virgin and though he has vivid fantasies of losing this status, he has no want to stick his dick inside the twat of a common prostitute his Uncle Tyrion has chosen for him.  After all, the Hound said they were a present and Uncle Tyrion had hinted over supper there would be a _special surprise_ for him later while blearily raising a toast and this is all too easy to piece together. And it is not a gift. It is an insult. Joffrey is the king and he should be given better girls than the whores who lap at his uncle's very likely deformed dick.  Certainly, Joffrey's father found pleasurable company in whores but  _that_ was  _different._ He chose them himself.  Joffrey won't be ruled by his uncle's preferences. 

So instead of wasting his virginity on two overeager cows from the brothel, Joffrey decides that this will instead be a different sort of playtime _._ The  _fun_ kind.  He's tortured his siblings and he's massacred animals but he's never used his talents on pretty adult women.  

"Your grace," says the dark-haired girl, "we'll do anything to you that you please. Might you want your cock tugged?  Want me to suck you?  Which of us do you want first?"  She sends a flirtatious sort of smile to him and then to the other girl.  "Oh  _please_ say you think I'm more beautiful than her or else she wins our quarrel-"

"We were talking about which of us you'd fancy more, before you entered the room," explains the red-haired girl.  Her voice swells with sexuality.  It is too much. 

Joffrey's tone is saccharine and sappy.  "Oh, how could I choose?"  he sings out.  "You are both beautiful."  They laugh in unison, a sound like a knife on stone.  Joffrey grimaces.

"Your grace, we'll do  _anything,"_ says Red Hair. 

"Each other," he says finally, gesturing from the redhead toward the brunette. "Touch _each other."_   They look all too happy to comply, which is slightly exciting, he must admit.  Joffrey enjoys power, enjoys exerting it whenever he can.  He likes that these two women are asking him what they can do to please him. Power is wonderful.  He especially likes using it to surprise people.   _Surprise._ Alone, he stokes himself while remembering Sansa's look of horror just before her father's execution when Joffrey cried triumphantly into the crowd,  _"Bring me his head!"_ He decides that this can be just as arousing as all that, if he makes it so.

He watches with lazy interest as the two pull into an embrace.  They pet each other's hair and then press lips together.  Their breathing speeds up as Joffrey watches, and they kiss more passionately.  The red-haired girl pulls the other's hair.  Tongues join the kiss, and then the brown-haired woman undresses, flinging her scanty dress to the floor.  She perches on the edge of Joffrey's bed and spreads her legs.  The redhead throws Joffrey a sultry look before diving in.  The brown-haired one makes moaning sounds and the red-haired one licking sounds, and they giggle and sigh.  Joffrey watches them roll around licking each other for some time.   He adjusts his belt, feeling the beginning of an erection despite his minor annoyance.  Then, it grows boring.  He knew it would.  The sounds become irritating.  _Lap lap lap lap._ Like an obnoxious, drizzling rain. 

"Do you think you might hit her?"  Joffrey asks, making sure his voice is the picture of boyish naivete`.   The idiots continue to giggle as they immediately engage in a weak sort of play-slapping fight.   _Stupid._  It's almost enough to make him flaccid.  Thinking fast, he slides off his belt. It glides into his hand like a snake.  "Use this, now?" he suggests merrily, handing it over to the redhead.  _  
_

Dark Hair adjusts, curves accentuated as she sticks her large, naked behind in the air. Red Hair smiles and hops off the bed. Her ignorance is very gorgeous as she laughs lightly and smacks Dark Hair's arse even lighter.  "Like this?" she asks, tone sweet and worry-free.

"Let me show you," says Joff.  He swallows, groin stirring again now.  He snatches back the belt and, heart palpitating madly, he lets it fly.   _  
_

_Smack._

Dark Hair squeals and giggles.  Joffrey laughs, too.  "Now,  _you_ try!" he cries, laying it on thick. "Make her cry out."   He hands Red Hair the belt again and she obeys.  They do this for several minutes, sending him appraising expressions and giggling.  Always giggling.   _  
_

"Harder," says Joff, clenching his teeth.  His palms are beginning to sweat.

There is a slight pause. Then, the belt flies and snaps.  The dark-haired beauty whimpers and her eyes widen.  

"So sorry, love," says Red Hair. "It was too much for her, Your Grace-"

"You will  _not_ say sorry to her," Joffrey informs her.  His voice is icy now.  "And you won't tell me what's too much.  Do you understand?"

A pause. 

"Yes, your grace," says the redhead s-l-o-w-l-y.  Dark Hair whimpers again.  

"Again.  _Harder."_

"Your grace?"

_"Harder."_

_Smack._

This time, the dark haired girl shrieks.  

Joffrey throws back his head and laughs, long blond curls billowing at his shoulders.  "Yes!  Good!" he applauds.  "Now, now, how about something else..."  He pauses, searching for a better weapon.  "Ah-ha!  This! This! Try this!"  

Red Hair's eyes widen in terror as Joffrey hands her his Baratheon scepter in exchange for the belt.  He sees Dark Hair shaking as she surveys the gnarled antlers.   "Oh Gods," whispers the redhead. "Your grace... Really... This is... Do you not want to fuck her?  Why not use your cock?  Such a fearsome weapon-" 

"I WILL NOT TAKE ORDERS FROM A COMMON WHORE!" Joffrey screams. "I'M THE KING! I'M THE KING!  AND I WILL DO AS I PLEASE!" 

"But your  _uncle-"_ the brunette begins, tears in her eyes. 

"My uncle can see what comes of telling  _me_ what to do!"  Joffrey howls.  "He can have you himself, that is if you can still walk!  If you still live! Now  _hit her !"_  Spittle flies out of Joffrey's open mouth.  Suddenly, he loses his handsome charms and only looks young and hideous in the dim light.  Teeth like a hungry shadowcat and a too-long nose and a jaw that is too angular for his skinny body. 

The whores lock eyes.  Red Hair swings the scepter and lets it strike the dark-haired one's bottom.  She screams in agony.  There is already a welt, only seconds after the hit!  Joffrey grins and takes a seat on the chaise across from his bed to watch the show.  They continue and there is such fantastic screeching that he places his hand inside his breeches, stroking his manhood madly and groaning. 

" _Harder,"_ he sputters. "I want to see her bleed,  _oh-"_

Red Hair obeys.  The bruises on Dark Hair are blue, black and there is blood springing up in places.  Joffrey whines and moans, tightening the grip on his shaft.  The screams are a lullaby and he pulls his hand up and down to match the sound.  His lip trembles.  He is close, he is close...  His eyes roll back in his head and he lets out a sigh of pleasure. 

"Daisy! Daisy!"  

Joffrey's eyes flutter open at the sound of the shriek, yet he is too late.  The red-haired whore slams the scepter into his forehead.  He cannot even make a sound as she pulls the tips of the antlers back out of his skin and then swings again.  Blood pools his vision as it leaks down his face.  His crown rolls off his head and teeters on the floorboards as the two prostitutes stand before him, delivering blow after blow.  The redhead whacks with the scepter, and the dark-haired girl attacks with a poker from the fire.  She moves slowly on foot but her arms strike well. When Joffrey can finally scream, his voice is boyish and shrill.  Dark Hair bashes him straight in the brain and Joffrey falls down and tries to crawl away, crying for his mother like an infant. 

 The whores cry and shout in unison, not letting up until King Joffrey lies motionless on the floor, hand still sticky with his seed and eyes dim, devoid of malice and brightness for once.   His thick, curled lips are open.  Even then, the dark-haired whore continues to bludgeon him, crying loudly as tears run down her face.  When Clegane bursts in the room, finally realizing that the screams are abnormal even for Joff's chambers, it takes all of his strength to tear the two girls away from the king's dead body.  

* * *

 

The Hound, never disturbed by anything, finds something deeply disquieting about the prostitutes' expressions.   _"When I seen them,"_ he recounts during the trial for King Joffrey's murder,  _"it was like they were afraid he would never die. They kept killing the king even when he lay there stone cold on the rug.  It was like they thought he could come back to life at any moment.  They wouldn't have stopped beating him if I'd never pulled them away."_

The two whores, Ros and Daisy, are punished for all in King's Landing to see.  They are set aflame as they are hanged.  As dramatic a sight as this is, it is the Hound's words that stay with the people forever.  

Years after Joffrey has passed over, there are still whispers that he will be born again one day. They say that his wicked soul will be placed into an even more frightening body, too. And they say that next time, he'll never die. 

 

 

 


	4. Casualty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle of Blackwater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading. Here's a different sort of spin on Joffrey.

_4._

* * *

 

Despite his mother's assurances, and despite his personal deep adoration of his own handsome appearance and supreme abilities, King Joffrey is aware that other men do not like him much.  He has always succeeded better with women and for this. he is not proud.  Girls blush when he smiles, and fumble when he shouts, and cry when he's angry.  They give him everything he desires.  He gets on best with his mother and when he was permitted to play with the children of court, he chose to fall in with the girls.  With boys, there was competition, and dirt, and tiresome boasting.  Joffrey only half-believes he cannot stomach the company of other boys and men because his accomplishments lie so far ahead of everyone else's. However, there is a piece of him that knows what is real, though his shapely lips would never dare speak it:  He is nervous to fail in front of them. 

King Joffrey has been surrounded by powerful men all his life.  Some are chivalrous and comely, like Uncle Jaime.  Others are fearless warriors, like his late father and Sandor Clegane.  Grandfather Tywin is an intellectual, not to mention brave and powerful.  Some men are crafty, some cunning, some just.  Even Uncle Tyrion says words Joffrey cannot understand and he's always pouring over some book nearly bigger than himself.  Joffrey is sometimes ( _rarely!_ ) afraid that he will never measure up.  Uncle Jaime tolerates him, Uncle Tyrion despises him, and Joffrey cannot help but think that his father never thought he was worth much at all.  The Hound is his only true friend.   _A friend my mother hired to watch over me and keep me safe,_ Joffrey thinks, sneeringly, almost hearing the words in his mother's clear, loud voice. 

"Your Grace," says Tyrion with a snort.  Joffrey springs to attention.  "If you would please rejoin the small council I would be much obliged.  Your daydreaming can wait. We have real concerns to discuss today."  

The king's green eyes flash angrily and his face flushes pink as the wildflowers that grow along the side of the moat outside the Red Keep.  "I was  _not_ daydreaming!" he insists in a snarl and crosses his arms.  His heart has been leaping in his chest the past half hour ever since Tyrion called together this dreadful emergency assembly.  Uncle Imp seems convinced that even  _if_ Stannis does not succeed in seizing the castle, there will be many casualties.  Tyrion wants Joffrey to fight on the bay with the common men.  He says it will bring the people hope but Mother, stroking Joffrey's neck, declared that was not an option.  Although Joffrey is glad for Mother's protection, he feels like a squalling child , like he is in danger from shrinking in the fire of the disdainful gazes from his uncle, his council members, the Kingsguard.  Obviously, they are the picture of courtesy but Joffrey feels like a failure anyhow.

After all, these are men who have seen at least one battle.  The only person Joffrey's defeated is his fat little brother. These past months waiting for Stannis' arrival have been torture.  Joffrey's feigned apathy, but inside is terrified. He must prove himself, he _must,_ but he is scared to do it. Fast thoughts turn in his head. _  
_

_If I am going to prove I am a man, I must do it swiftly.  I must be unafraid, just like my father would have been.  He'd have run straight into battle with his axe and massacred the lot of them.  Stannis be damned!  Father would have_ never  _let him threaten Westeros so!  Threatening our family?  Father'd have had his head!_

Joffrey sucks in air before standing up to address the room. "Listen!" he says, holding a hand above his head.

 _"Gods, what now?"_   Tyrion says under his breath, but Mother sends him a threatening glance.

"I am your king!" he begins, his voice embarrassing him as it suddenly crackles on the word  _king._ Fortunately, no one (even the Imp) dares laugh right now.  He clears his throat and starts anew.  "I am your king and when Stannis attacks, if dares do it, I will be ready for him."  He lets his large eyes fall on each council member in turn to gauge their reactions.  Varys and Baelish listen with attention and Pycelle is nodding.  Mother is smiling proudly, Tyrion grimaces, and the Hound stands watch in the corner, scraggly hair shadowing his expression.  "I will meet him, like my late father would have done, on Blackwater Bay, with a weapon in my hand and a smile on my face!  I wish to be armed with my father's warhammer and by the seven, I  _will_ cut down all the men in my path!  I  _will_ protect Westeros.  I will triumph over my treasonous uncle!" Joffrey finishes, in a shout. 

Pycelle smiles, looking more excited than usual.  Tyrion's eyebrows raise, and the others looked stunned.  Joffrey is even a bit stunned by the words that have come pouring out of his mouth.  But instead of being regretful of making grand statements like he has been in the past (loping off and claiming he never actually said them), Joffrey is elevated by this promise he has made to the realm.  He is the best king to grace the Iron Throne, and he  _will_ murder his Uncle Stannis.  He will make the people of King's Landing wish they had never, ever doubted him. 

When the council members depart to get what may be their only rest before the impending battle, Mother catches Joffrey by the arm as he rises.  "My sweet, courageous son," she whispers into his ear.  "How brave you are.  How much you have grown.  You have made me proud."

King Joffrey bristles, eyeing her with an annoyance he hasn't ever been able to put into words.  "I am not doing this to make  _you_ proud," he snarls. "I am doing it for Father."

As Mother stares in shocked silence,  Joffrey turns on his heel and marches away, feeling ever so slightly lighter in movement. 

Joffrey does not sleep that night.  He instead tosses and turns, gazing up at his Lannister crimson canopy and praying to the gods he hardly considers anymore.

 

* * *

Uncle Stannis' ships reach the sights of Joffrey's guards quicker than expected, yet they are still half a day's time away.  The Red Keep is busy and frantic.  King Joffrey's stomach does tumbles as he watches his Kingsguard pledge their allegiance to him.  Tommen sits to Joffrey's right, clutching a stuffed toy and weeping.   _I must be a man,_ Joffrey thinks, holding his golden head high.   _I must not look like that.  A sniveling little boy.  I am the king. The true king._ His heart bounces like a scared rabbit yet he thanks his men for their service to the realm in a clear, loud voice.  

More men begin to gather, more than Joffrey expected, upon the shores of Blackwater Bay.  There are a few scattered wealthy-looking men, but most of the men are ruffians, in tatters and terribly-constructed armor.  Joffrey watches for a while as their wives and children kiss and hug them goodbye.  He thinks of his fair Lady Sansa, likely safe in the Keep all ready.  When the battle is won, she will marry him and become his adoring wife.  She will be his reward for such wonderful bravery, he thinks, and swallows hard.  He feels like he swallowed rocks and sand, and flits off to be dressed for battle. 

His armpits are sopping up with sweat as his mail is fitted to his slender, shaking body.  His slitted eyes dare the servants to make comment as they clothe him and they stay completely silent.  On him, the armor feels heavy and awkward.  He thought he'd looked different within it, as if he'd become a large, muscular man like his late father there in the mirror after being suited with the mail.  But he is still the same pretty boy with the too-large lips and soft, long cheeks.  His voice still cracks and falters.  He is still the same thirteen year old, except now he is wearing armor.  Lip trembling, he snarls for the servants to leave him be. 

In the solitude of his royal chambers, King Joffrey sniffles and cries, feeling like he is five years of age and not thirteen at all. Younger than Tommen. A complete embarrassment.  His father would smack him cross the forehead if he gazed upon this ridiculousness.  That thought makes the cries come out louder, and masses of snot and spit join in.  His head begins to ache. 

Joffrey cries alone, skinny legs shaking, until his Dog raps on the door and asks permission to enter.  

"A moment, Hound!" chokes Joffrey, wiping the tears from his eyes with a practiced motion of his fingers and wrist.  He surveys himself in the mirror yet again.  His face is very red and he still looks like a child.  A stupid, sad, little boy.  Drawing in a breath, he holds his chin high and shouts for Clegane to enter. 

The Dog gives a bow.  "My king, it has been said that Stannis will arrive to the bay in several hours.  If you are ready for me, I will attend to you now as planned.  Shall we wait with your mother in the Keep until it is time?"

That sounds pleasant, yet Joffrey remembers his promise.  He does not _want_ to hide in the Keep under his mother's wing because he does not want to look like the precious, weak son she always wants him to be for her.  He does not want Lady Sansa to see him that way and more so, he wants to impress the knights, the fighters, and the guards.  Joffrey shakes his head, curls swaying at his neck.

"No, Hound," he says without giving it another second.  "Where are my men?  Where have the members of my Kingsguard gathered? Where are the men who will be fighting?"

"In the armory, and in the corridor outside the throne room, your grace," says the Hound gruffly.  "What would you want done with them?"

"I want to join them," says Joffrey with a brisk nod of his head. "I want the best drink brought to that corridor in casks and barrels with enough cups for all who wish to drink it. I want to give them hope.  I wish to celebrate with my men, Hound."

A black eyebrow slides upward over Clegane's right eye.  "As you wish, my king," he agrees.  "As you wish."  

* * *

 

When Joffrey enters the hallway, he is slightly nervous as he always is when in a large company of men.  There are circles of them laughing and talking crassly about their previous brawls.  There is cursing and knee-slapping and the punching of fist on mail.  Whores gather around some men, giggling and purring while they stroke muscle and beard.

"Your king has entered!" shouts the Hound.  "Show respect!"

Joffrey flushes as the noise instantly stops.  Some men bow and others get on one knee.  There is a chorus of muttered _Your graces_ and  _My kings._  Joffrey scowls, and motions for the grouping of handmaidens behind him to come forward with several flagons of sweet red and dark ale.  

"Listen to me," he says, hoping his voice will not break this time.  "As your king, I want to join you.  I want you to take me as one of your own.  We will..."  He pauses, eyes flashing as he considers the large crowd, trying desperately to pull out the right words.  "We  _will_ triumph over Stannis.  We will.  And you will all be rewarded for your service to me.  I am King Joffrey, son of Westeros, first of his name, and I give to you drink and I give to you my... My... I give to you my thanks," he finally decides, glad his voice stayed just where he hoped it would, in a pleasingly low sort of range for the time being. 

There is quiet for several seconds as the faces consider his words.  He hasn't ever addressed his men in this way.  Some appear amused or wary.  But then one very short man steps out of the crowd and begins to clap slowly. 

In shock, Joffrey finds that he is staring down at his Uncle Tyrion.  The others follow the small man, clapping approvingly.  More applaud, and more.  Some whistle.  

"The Gods smile on King Joffrey!" shouts one man.  

"All hail King Joffrey!" says another. 

Grinning from ear to ear, Joff puffs out his chest and offers the drink again, allowing himself to be jostled and patted on the back.  Above him, the Hound's face twists into a curious sort of smile.  Could it be he has finally made some of them proud? 

* * *

 An hour later, and the common men on the beach report Stannis is still not close enough to try a direct hit.  This is a very good thing, because Joffrey and his company are having too much fun to consider leaving for battle  _just_ yet.  The drinks go around and around.  Joff has since called for more wine and ale, and most of the lips of the men are dark red.  Most of their eyes shine, and the legs wobble to and fro.  With each cup of sweet drink, they praise the king more highly.  With each drink, their love grows stronger.  And so Joffrey calls for more and more.   "By order of your king!" he shouts, calling for another flagon.  "By order of your king!" as he shouts for another. 

Joffrey has never been so drunk in his entire life.  But the men want him to keep up with them and so he does.  He swallows the wine as hard and fast as Uncle Tyrion, and even tries the ale he is offered, thick and black with suds of film atop it.  With every drink, he finds that he is less scared about battle.  He is convinced there is no way that they will lose and he speaks this thought aloud over and over again.  The men love it.  It makes them cheer and raise their weaponry high. 

For the first time,  Joffrey finds a friend in Tyrion.  They laugh and snort together as if they've done so all their days.  Even when Joffrey cannot understand Tyrion's fancy words, he finds the delivery hysterical.  Tyrion calls over his sellsword mate, Bronn, who is almost as hilarious as Tyrion himself.  Together, the three drink until Joffrey can barely stand.  The Hound drinks his wineskin in the corner of the room, surveying the scene with a solemn expression. 

"Dog!" Uncle Tyrion suddenly shouts. "Dog!  Come!  Sit!  Come here, Dog!"  In unison, Joffrey and Bronn understand the jest he's made and they all laugh loudly at the Hound's darkening expression.  A whore plays in Tyrion's hair while one sits on Bronn's lap and when a third appears to kiss Joffrey on the cheek, he grabs her by the chin and pushes his lips against hers with a bravery he's never had with Lady Sansa.  Tyrion whistles approvingly.  It is blissful and unbelievable, all at once. 

Then, too soon, the horns sound.  It is time to descend out to the battleground.  Stannis' ships are here. 

"Let-- us -- go!"  Joffrey manages to get out.  "Come, men!  Come!  We shall -- prevail!"  The words are difficult.  He sways and his mail clatters as he falls against Bronn who grins and claps his shoulder. 

"I believe the little king's had enough wine!" he observes with a short chuckle. 

"It appears you have  _all_ had enough," the Hound says, and through spinning vision, Joffrey can see that the others are laughing and swaying, too.  How was he so worried about defeating Stannis?  It is all a joke now.  Stannis is a complete idiot, and Joffrey is the true heir!  He falls against the Hound, who steadies him with a huge, gnarled hand.  

With no recollection of how he got there, Joff is finally standing upon the sand of Blackwater Bay, blearily recognizing that he is in the midst of battle.  The warhammer is dead, heavy weight in his hand.  He feels sluggish and silly.  There are screams and shouts around him.  Men fall and flail.  It does not seem real.  This cannot be happening.  

The men fighting for King's Landing swing, stab and apply force, but a good amount of them are too piss drunk to see straight.  They obeyed their king and are now paying with their lives.  Joffrey finds Tyrion again, who is messing with a large jar, his eyes wide. 

"What _is_ that, Uncle?" Joffrey smiles.

"Wildfire.  It is dangerous.  I cannot get the lid loose-"

"Let me help," Joffrey urges.

"You are quite drunk," Tyrion says, and he is not smiling.

"I am your  _king,"_ Joffrey says, losing his good humor. "Let me! Let me!"  He knows not how to operate the jar, yet he knows he will be the best for the job.  He grabs it from Tyrion's grasp and the little man tries to get it back.  In the struggle, Joffrey decides to simply throw it out to sea.  The glass jar flies out into the dark water and bobs at the surface.  Nothing happens. 

Tyrion wheels upon Joffrey. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU JUST DID?"

Joffrey is spinning too hard to hear him or care.  He shoves Tyrion's forehead and waves the warhammer nonchalantly into the crowd.  A grouping of men surround them and Joffrey is only half-aware how dangerous this situation might be.  Clegane jumps in front of them, cutting them down with his sword.  More men join and to Joffrey's dizzy horror, his Dog, his best friend, falls down to his knees and dies in the sand.  His head rolls away from his body.  His eyes stare up, shining black and blank, into the fray. 

Joffrey's mouth opens into a cry. "Hound!" he shouts.  "My Hound!"  With some sort of inhuman force, he rushes the crowd, warhammer raised above his head.  Behind him, Tyrion calls for him to stop.  His men run to protect him.  "I am the king!  Westeros is mine!  I will not sit back!"  The words are sloppy and sticky with wine.  They spill between panting, and Joffrey is filled with the rage and daring of his father in that moment. 

"This one is mine!" screams a terrible voice.  There is the slick, sliding sound of a sword being unsheathed and then everything goes cold.  For a second,  Joffrey can hear a thousand screams and then he is gone. 

* * *

 

King Joffrey and his party were slaughtered without mercy during the Battle on Blackwater Bay.  King Stannis' men say it was appallingly easy, like shooting down pigeons in a busy city.  The people of King's Landing pretend that they accept there is a new king  in Westeros when he demands they admit he is the true king, the one king.  He mocks the usurper, his nephew Joffrey, and demands they admit that the cruel little boy with white golden curls was no real ruler.  He was a complete joke, a pretender.   _Yes,_ the people chant,  _a pretender._

Yet in dark taverns and on street corners, in the brothels and in hushed places in the castle courtyards, the people speak of the late King Joffrey in high regard.  He may have been twisted, may have had a few poor judgments in his time, yes.  But he was a king who cared about his men.  He went out like a true knight, chivalrous, daring and bold as any king should strive to be.  He died in the trenches, he fell dead in the sand with his kingsguard and his followers.  The people know they have lost the rightful heir to the throne and there is quiet talk of an uprising.  _Careful_ talk. 

They quietly admire his face.  Even as flies gather in his eyelids and around his nostrils and neck meat, the people still comment on how handsome he was, and how he was struck down much too soon.   _How sweet he was,_ they whisper. _What a picture of youth compared to the dreadful face on our new king._

They stare up in worship and admiration, even as King Joffrey's severed head grows bloated and sallow next to his mother's, brother's, and uncle's, up so high on the pike outside the Red Keep. 


	5. He Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey views his firstborn child from Queen Margaery for the first and last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning (to be cautious) for extreme domestic abuse, nonconsensual sex, and the fatal abuse of a child

_5\. He breaks._

* * *

 

King Joffrey is not quiet about the shortcomings of his marriage to Margaery Tyrell.  He laughs loudly at her during court, he ridicules her at the long dinner table, and he spares no detail when he recounts how much she disappoints him whilst they sit amongst family, or servants, or courtiers.  Everyone is quite aware that it has been two and a half years since the royal wedding, and still Queen Margaery has not gotten with child.   Tonight, high tea in the sitting room is no different.

"She is cursed," King Joffrey shouts, waggling a ringed finger at his dark-haired wife.  "Cursed by bad breeding!"   His mother Cersei titters openly while Margaery's brother, Ser Loras of the Kingsguard, hides a frown. Uncle Tyrion and his wife Sansa look on, silent.  

Next comes the favored insult of the king: _"_ Even my _uncle_ can make creatures scuttle out from between Sansa's legs."He snorts, turning his head to study Sansa's shapely form as if judging livestock.  Tyrion, as usual, turns red, stroking his wife's hand.  "What do you say, Sansa?  Shall we make good on our old betrothal?  I bet _you'd_ give me sons. Bet you'd like it far better than what goes on in my uncle's chambers."He mock-shudders. "It'd do you good to make at least  _one_ handsome child."  Sansa bites her lip. She will not dare to talk back to Joffrey tonight. 

 _"Stop this,"_ Tyrion scowls, but the king cannot hear him over his own snide laughter.  Only his mother continues to laugh along with him.  The rest merely stare, caught in a bad nightmare.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself, my sweet lady wife?" inquires Joffrey, his words dripping with ice, vitriol, and Dornish wine. 

Everyone waits for some reaction, some sign of hurt or pain but Margaery only bites her lip, half-smiling, and gazes into the fire. 

"I know, my king,"is her response, delivered in a gay and lilting tone of music and light. "I have hardly been a wife to you and you have been so patient, and so kind. I promise I will give you sons. I promise, my love."Joffrey says nothing in response.  Instead, he continues to laugh more still, a sound so high and cold and terrible that it gives even his mother the shudders. 

The room always quakes with such awkward energy as Joffrey continues to drink wine like it is water that those watching the young king have the grotesque feeling that just as Joff downs goblet after goblet, the room itself will swallow them whole.

Unbeknownst to all of the onlookers, this cruelty of Joff's is not of the usual caliber.  This is an act, and a practiced one, for no one may ever know the real truth. 

* * *

 

King Joffrey is, and has been since the royal wedding, impotent.  

On his own, Joff did just fine. He touched himself in the bath and under the coverlet, whimpering and thinking about tasting his sister.  He matured quickly. His voice split, and he grew as tall as his mother. Age twelve, and he was promised a betrothed, Sansa Stark. He began to stroke himself obsessively and think of her, even after The Bad Thing happened.  At age thirteen it seemed he was beyond ready to bring a queen into his bed.  Uncle Tyrion tried to make him practiced with whores but it was more fun to torture them. He'd watch them slap each other and pull each other's hair, suck lips and bite thighs, but he did not wish to bed them.  He had fantasies, all beautiful and grotesque things, and so he'd never dreamed it would turn out so difficult.

Then it was announced that Joffrey would get a new queen.  She was good-looking but Joffrey still wanted Sansa. He laughed, sure, when she wedded his uncle, but inside he was steaming. Sansa was  _his._ He wanted to pull her red hair and touch her curving body. Still, Margaery would do.  And Sansa could visit his bed any time he liked. 

As the wedding night approached, Joffrey had no worries in his mind. Lady Margaery was pretty, kind and appreciative of him, and he was looking forward to claiming her maidenhead.

During the wedding, he suddenly found himself feeling sick and nervous at the thought of consummating the marriage.  Still, they kissed and danced, and Joffrey touched his new queen with thrilled fingers. But he couldn't stop drinking. Goblet after goblet went down his throat, made him bolder and madder and more excited.    

In the well-lit royal bedroom, though, King Joffrey climbed atop his naked, beautiful bride and instantly went soft. They tried for some time before Joffrey, blazing drunk and hateful, slapped Margaery away from him and hid his shame behind his shaking fists.  When Ser Meryn and Ser Boros knocked, announcing they were there to inspect the bed sheets, the boy king's eyes grew wild. He searched his nightstand as Margaery looked at him questioningly until her face seized up in horror watching as Joffrey grasped a sharpened dagger in his fist. 

 _"Spread your legs,"_ he hissed,  _"and scream my name."_

And so, quivering, the ever obliging Margaery shouted,  _"Oh, Joffrey",_ as her new husband slit open the inside of her thigh and twisted the dagger until a pool of blood spilled onto his coverlet. Quickly, he covered her with a pillow as his men entered the room.  His grin was long and wide, as he displayed the mess like a child excited he'd earned a sweet. 

As soon as Meryn and Boros had departed, and Margaery lay there crying, Joffrey brought his lips to her ear and snarled two words:

_"Tell nobody."_

* * *

 Margaery has made good on her end of the bargain.  She tells no one, not even her trifling brother, as far as Joffrey can tell.  He can smell a lie, smell treason before it happens and Ser Loras treats him no differently.  For this, he does not punish Margaery, much.  

Due to the hot shame, Joffrey does not attempt to touch Margaery sexually for nearly a year. He hits her when she kisses him.  He glares when she coos at him.  Margaery's brightness fades.  She stops smiling, stops engaging with Prince Tommen and offering kindness to Sansa, and becomes a dutiful shell for her angry boy king. She tries everything to make him happy. 

Joffrey tries to bed her on his fourteenth Name Day to no avail.  His cock sits there like a rag, lifeless and floppy, no matter how much he strokes or where Margaery puts her lips.  When she offers encouragement, Joffrey hollers at her in his new, deep voice before he beats her senseless and bleeding.  She is left cowering at the end of the marriage bed while Joffrey rips apart the books on his nightstand and stabs the mattress with Widow's Wail, yowling with rage.  Goose feathers flutter like snow. 

He leaves her be once more and Margaery spends her days and nights living in fear, fear of seeing him and of not seeing him.

 Although no one else knows their secret, it is getting more and more curious by the day.  When he is asked about how he will deal with it, Joffrey flares his nostrils and shrugs.  He has several choice answers, each more grisly than the last.  

 _"I'll have her womb ripped out of her,"_ he says most often but he never does it. 

Mother is becoming increasingly concerned. "We can find you a new queen," she says one afternoon, stroking his white-gold hair, now cut short against his scalp.  Mother convinced him to have it cut after he started tearing it out.   

Joffrey pulls away.  "No," he says in a cold voice.  "I'll keep-  _we'll_ keep trying. The gods arranged the marriage. It was blessed. It  _will_ work."  

Mother eyes him, sadly. "My poor, sweet son.  How much you appear to love your wife."

"More than anything, Mother," says Joffrey in a faraway voice, eyes lost in a tapestry on the wall. For a boy of fourteen, he keeps a stern and stoic look most days.  His eyes are often adorned with rough, dark circles and his face is becoming gaunt.  "I love her more than anything," he says, and allows himself to believe the lies he has woven. 

* * *

 

Another year goes by and Joffrey is fifteen years old.  He is taller and more sullen.  His hair is regularly shorn and the few newly growing golden locks hang lifeless against his forehead until he cares to wrench them forth again.  His lips are cracked and his skin is wan.  His laugh has developed into a nasty, crazed sound and his eyes are often wide.

By contrast, Queen Margaery's eyes are dull. She has lost a considerable amount of weight.  Like a ghost, she drifts through her days at court limply clinging to Joffrey's arm.  She still smiles, but barely.  Beneath her sleeves are bite marks and cuts.  When they sit side by side to address their subjects, they look like a pair of shadow figures.  The dead king and his skeleton queen. 

 They still have not had any success despite trying steadily for weeks and weeks.  Each time, they skip kissing and fondling and instead go right into what they hope will be coitus.  If he is not already soft, he gets there nearly immediately.  He has been inside her now, but only for seconds before losing the glorious hardness to his own rage.

Joffrey deals with the disappointment and self-hatred with two methods:  heavy drinking and long, long walks.  He walks with a solemn sense of purpose.  He walks in the yard, around the forest, in the hallways. He walks circles in his room where no one can see him, chanting nonsense words aloud.  He never tires.  He never feels rested either.  He has no appetite anymore and eats barely anything for days.  When he begins to hunger, he quaffs down wine to fill himself. He is in a constant drunk stupor of fury and disgust for living. His patience  and confidence thin like his once beautiful hair.  His body changes.  His legs are muscled and his chest hard.  His arms are strong and hands tough. His feet are cracked and blistered.  His waist and legs are impossibly skinny.

The days pass. His madness intensifies. Joffrey knows his father would disapprove of this foolishness.  King Robert never had a problem with bedding women.  He had Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen, didn't he?  Not to mention the bastards Joffrey heard Mother mention some time ago.  Joffrey wants to emulate his father.  He does not want to be weak. 

He becomes infatuated with hunting. He kills anything he can and is obsessed with dressing his kills.  His fine outfits are soon covered in the smelly blood of boars and stags.  His eyes gleam strangely in the dull light while he works with his knives and his fingers.  He snaps necks of rabbits and slits the organs out of deer. He becomes addicted to the walks and the smell of the blood.  The walls of his chamber fill with mounted heads, the dead eyes the only witness to Joffrey's failure.

Weeks pass. He begins to stroke himself again.  He thinks of Margaery, lying on a slab in the slaughterhouse like a freshly killed doe.  He grunts and twists, running his long hands down his shaft and thrusting his hips toward the canopy above him.  The first night, he is hard for several minutes and then it dies.  He pictures his father laughing at him and he grits his teeth.

The next night, he tries again.  He can see Margaery perfectly in his mind's eye, staring up at him, eyes dull and black. He thinks of her body, her small breasts and bony hips, thinks of tearing her to pieces.  She'd be so much better dead.  For the first time in years, Joffrey comes into his hand, tears of happiness in his eyes.  With his sheets now pungent and sour, he instantly falls asleep.

When he finally decides he will attempt to deflower his queen for what is about to be the twentieth time, he knows he must demand her to act a certain way and she must obey.  No kissing.  No cooing.  No touching.  No aggravating looks of concern. No gooey smiles.  This is _his_ night. 

He calls off the guards and bursts into Margaery's sleeping chambers with evil eyes.  He wakes her up by yanking up her nightclothes, tearing the white silk with careless hands that have no regard for soft, delicate things.  Margaery snaps awake with a cry just as Joffrey is working to shove his hardness inside her.  Her face is questioning and fearful in the dark.

"No talking," he hisses.  He slaps a palm over her mouth as he thrusts into her flopping, nearly lifeless form.  He can almost feel her bones, he thinks.

 _Dead girl. Dead girl. Dead girl,_ he chants to himself as he stares down at her, his mouth a hard line and his brows furrowing with concentration.  She allows him to ride her and when something snaps and explodes in her, creating warmth around him as he goes, she yelps.

"No noise!"  He hardens his grip and Margaery chokes on the fingers he juts inside her lips.  He moans greedily as he comes into the tight crevice of her cunt and moves around inside her, allowing each drop of seed to spill inside her.  Bleating like a lamb, his shoulders quiver as he pulls himself out. 

Finally, he collapses beside her on the bed, casting her with a nearly sheepish expression.  "I did it," he says, a smirk forming on his lips. "I did it!"  

"You  _did,"_ Margaery breathes, very carefully tracing her finger along Joffrey's jaw.  "My strong, handsome king."

He allows the touch but ignores her words as if she is not there. "I  _did_ it!" he repeats, and together they laugh until they are out of breath, admiring the streaks of crimson that now adorn the sheets. 

* * *

 They announce the joyous news a month later when it is certain Lady Margaery is with child.  Joffrey's face is pink before he has had even one cup of wine, and Margaery is smiling brightly.  There is a feast thrown in the honor of the firstborn son of the king and queen and Cersei steps in to kiss both Margaery's cheeks.  The mood is light and happier than any occasion the courtiers have seen in years.  They toast the unborn babe and everyone in the throne room raises their glasses high. Joffrey twirls Margaery around like he did on their wedding day.  

"What a blessing," mutters Tyrion under his breath in his seat at the back of the room. 

Sansa holds their small son on her lap and helps him operate his stunted arms to grasp his spoon.  "I really do hope they can be happy now," she says with a brisk nod.  "It would be nice."   _Nice?  Gods,_  thinks Tyrion.

"Oh, my dear wife," he says , a sorry smile forming on his lips. "I know you are far more intelligent than that."   _I thought she was off her fairy tales,_ he thinks,  _poor thing.  Has she not learned?  Alas, she is still a girl yet._

"Intelligence has naught to do with it, my lord," Sansa says with wisdom in her soft voice.  "But it would be nicer for everyone that way and thus I wish it so with all my heart."

Tyrion cannot argue.  He mulls over Sansa's words, letting his gaze wander. He makes brief eye contact with his nephew and quickly looks away.  The obsessive glint in Joffrey's eyes as he leads Margaery about the room is enough to put anyone off their food.

* * *

 The obsession seen by Tyrion that night in the throne room grows with each month.  Joffrey drinks less and walks less and instead haunts his lady wife like a phantom, hangs off her like a chain.  He becomes the commander of her every action, deciding when she will eat and what, whether she'll have iced milk or honey wine or water, and if she should sleep or stay up.  Though Margaery's skin grows clearer and her thin face plumps up healthily, she is beginning to look distraught on the outside now.  She cannot retain a look of composure anymore.  She cries readily, apologizes profusely, broods.  When she kindly refuses the food the handmaidens offer due to upset stomach or fatigue, Joffrey punches or slaps them in front of her until she agrees, crying, to eat. 

Loras can barely stand it.  He paces and watches the royal couple constantly, instantly agreeing when Joffrey appoints him to guard his sister.  He does not speak, but is ever watchful.  Cersei attempts to calm her son's nerves but he has become unraveled with worry that something bad will happen to Margaery before she gives birth. He won't stand for his mother's opinion. She has lost him once more, and she watches her son and his queen with scorn in her sharp, green eyes.

He doubles the guard.  He does not allow Margaery to speak to others on her own.  He must always be by her side.  As she grows rounder, Joffrey grows meaner.  He protects her swollen body as if it is filled with rare jewels. 

"I am afraid for her," Sansa whispers to Tyrion during supper one night after Joffrey throws his queen's dinner to the floor because it is not exactly what he ordered.  Tyrion says nothing, squeezing Sansa's arm lightly.  He is afraid, too. 

The tension grows like the wildfire that flew toward the ships on Blackwater Bay and Tyrion cannot even guess what will happen when everything begins to burn up.  

* * *

 When Margaery, panting and breathing hard, announces she believes it is time,  Joffrey hollers for assistance.  He watches intently as Loras escorts her to her bed.  A slew of handmaidens and nurses are ordered to stand near Margaery's side and never leave her until she is ready.  Joffrey shouts direction and flies about the room.  Cersei, Tyrion and Sansa gather in the dully lit hallway, waiting for word. 

"It seems too early," Joffrey shouts, bursting out and slamming the door.  His hands are fluttering at his sides, making fists in the cold air.  He has suddenly become an expert on birthing, judging by how he addresses the midwife and nurses, his demands sneering and cruel.  "Is it too early, Mother?  Is it too early?" 

From her chambers, Margaery lets out a howl. 

"Gods!" Joffrey screams.  "I should go in there. _I'll_ make that baby come out." He clenches his teeth, looking dangerous.  "I'll cut it out of her!"  Tyrion notes that Joff seems a bit  _too eager._ Sansa stiffens.  _  
_

"It will be fine," Cersei says, trying to massage his shoulders.  He wrenches free and paces around the hallway, clapping his hands noisily as he goes.

"I gave birth after seven months, your grace," calls out Sansa quickly.  "Everything was well-"

Joffrey wheels on her, snorting and snarling. "Are you suggesting my lady queen is going to birth goblins like you do? How _dare_ you insult my wife!"

Sansa's face darkens (there _is_ fire inside her, Tyrion knows, and she is not always afraid to hide it).  She opens her mouth to reply when Cersei steps between them.  "Joffrey, why not take a short hunt?  Margaery has all the assistance possible, and you need to clear your head.  Just as your father did each time I gave birth! It was, after all, good luck for me."  She smiles regally, eyeing her son.

The room is quiet, waiting for the king's response.  Finally, he nods.  "Yes.  A grand idea."  There is a collective sigh.  "Ser Loras!" he barks.  "SER LORAS!"  The bark becomes a long bellow, his adam's apple quaking.

Loras emerges, his eyes dark.  "Yes, your grace?"

"The _men_ are going on a hunt.  Come along," says Joffrey excitedly, and beams widely at Tyrion, proud of his slight.  "It's like my father used to do!  And when we return, my wife will put my son in my arms!"  He sounds like a child, and hops around like one, too.  Cersei beams, believing she has influenced him greatly. 

Loras follows, but his expression is easy enough to read for the others.  Tyrion gives him a pained smile and turns to Sansa, who is staring quietly at the floorboards.  Cersei sneers at them sharply before striding away. 

 In the forest, Joffrey chatters incessantly to Ser Loras, Boros, Meryn, and Bronn.  He is now more of a man than they.  He has married a woman, impregnated her, and will soon have a son.   _The future king._ They'll never do so well for themselves.  And Lady Margaery is far more beautiful than any whore these men have likely bedded.   _Isn't she?_ Isn't her raven hair the finest?  Do they think Joffrey's son will have hair of spun gold or hair dark like the night?   Eyes of Lannister like fresh, healthy grass or of deep Tyrell mahogany?

Joffrey hardly pauses to take a breath.  He drinks from his wine skin often and begins to fumble with his arrows.  Meryn and Boros assist him while Bronn and Ser Loras raise eyebrows at each other, cringing.  

"I will name him Joffrey Robert Baratheon, I think," Joff says gaily, and gulps down more wine.  He wipes his face on his sleeve.  The wind whistles around them as the sky darkens.   

Joffrey misses all of his hits, but it is no matter today, he says.  Nothing will bring him down, he says.

He wants to go back to the castle but it has only been several hours.  With some convincing words, Loras and Bronn encourage Joffrey to go further into the wood to track pheasants.  Joffrey agrees there is likely no baby yet. He looks disappointed, like a child who has been told he mustn't open his Name Day gifts early.  

The next morning, Joffrey commands the party to wake, smiling broadly. He has been drinking all night and walking circles around the trees, caressing the tip of an arrow as he goes.

 "We must get back to the castle!" he shouts.  The others awake blearily and can do nothing but agree.  

Bronn locks eyes with Loras.  "At least the king is happy," he says out of the corner of his mouth. "It shall be better for your sister."  Loras does not look convinced. 

* * *

 When the group of men reach Margaery's quarters, two handmaidens greet them, beaming. "Did the baby come?" Joffrey shouts, bounding toward the doorway animatedly. "Is it over?"

"Yes.  Only an hour or so ago. She is healthy, your grace," offers one handmaiden, bowing her head.

"Yes, yes, but how is the _baby_ ?" Joffrey demands, but does not wait for an answer.  He pushes past them, a wide and jubilant smile on his pale face.  "How was it? How was it?  Where is my son?"   Loras follows him in as he runs to his queen. 

Margaery is more gorgeous than ever, though she looks very tired.  She is rosy-cheeked and smiling, and for once, Cersei is  hovering over her, gazing upon her fondly.  Sansa and Tyrion sit nearby.   

"Beautiful," Sansa offers kindly. "Really, your grace."  Joffrey ignores her peace offering, pushing past her to get to the bedside. He stands next to his mother, and stares down upon his firstborn child.

In Margaery's arms is a small bundle with a very pink face.  It is tinier than Joffrey expected.  

Cersei rubs his shoulder.  "Does this please you, my sweet?"

"I want to hold him," Joffrey barks, ignoring his mother.  "Come, come.  Let me hold him!" 

" _Her_ ," Cersei corrects gently.  "She is a lovely baby girl. A little princess with hair of spun gold like Myrcella."  She pats Margaery's head like she is a good dog.

Margaery smiles serenely and holds out the infant.  "Here, Joff.  Take your daughter in your arms."

Joffrey's excited expression clouds over immediately.   _"A girl?"_  he demands, looking from person to person.  "Are you joking? A  _girl?_ What kind of trick is this?  Surely not. Surely  _not."_ He looks like he might breathe fire.  His eyes glaze over.  Tyrion feels a chill and he wagers that everyone else can feel it, too.

"I am sorry, my love, but _look._ She is beautiful.  We will have a son next. We'll have as many sons as you wish!"  says Margaery, though her smile is wavering.  It is as if she forgot who Joffrey was and she has only just remembered. 

"You said you would bear my son!" Joffrey says in a dangerous voice.  "You stupid bitch!"  He slaps Margaery hard across the face. The new babe begins to howl.  "You liar!" 

"No, Joffrey, _please,_ " Margaery gasps when Joffrey pulls back his arm. 

Quickly, Cersei collects the baby and Tyrion is somewhat impressed.  _Making a move that protects something innocent._ But then he gazes in horror as his sister holds out the infant to King Joffrey.    "Hold her," says Cersei insistently. "You will love her if you hold her."  In her tone it is obvious she still thinks she knows her son the best of anyone.  But no one knows who Joffrey truly is, not now.

It all moves so fast then.

Joffrey ignores his mother again and instead slaps Margaery again. This slap echoes off the walls. The infant howls.

"SHUT IT UP!" Joffrey screams. Sansa and Tyrion leap up. No one can act fast enough.

"Joffrey, please.  Hold her."  She dangles the baby before Joffrey's flashing eyes.  _Cersei, what are you doing?_ Tyrion thinks, and then his fears are confirmed. 

Joffrey swings his arm out and thrashes hard at his mother's offering. Cersei loses her grip.  There are several screams, a gasp. Bronn curses.  The tiny bundle drops to the harsh wooden floor like a stone.  It makes no more sound.  The room whirls and Queen Margaery merely turns away, her face blank.

Loras rushes to Joffrey. Bronn blocks him, eyes soft yet hands strong.  Cersei begins to cry.  The nurse moves toward the bundle, her mouth a hard, thin line, and Tyrion and Sansa follow her lead.  When the thin blanket is drawn back, Sansa's face hardens and she looks away.  Tyrion can only gaze at the body for a second before feeling repulsed.

No pulse needs to be taken. Tyrion knows that the new little Lannister is dead.  She was too small, too frail anyway, and the injury from her psychotic young father has killed her.  Rage boiling inside him, Tyrion is struck with a very familiar dilemma:  _is it more accurate to blame Cersei or Joffrey?  Which is worse?_   When he forces himself to look at the king, he is surprised by what he sees.

Joffrey's expression has changed.  He does not look like a man who has killed an infant, but rather like a small boy who cares what his mother thinks about the rotten thing he's just done.   _Something l_ _ike kicking a dog or ruining a new coat by playing in the mud._   He mutters something under his breath.  Eyes wide and fearful, he is completely focused on Cersei's sobs. Tyrion is not surprised for he is just as stunned as Joff by his sister's reaction. Joffrey wildly looks around the room before running away.  The silence is so thick that Tyrion can hear his footsteps for a long while, pounding down the corridor and then the stairway.  Away, away, away.  Meryn and Boros, the fools, finally follow, wearing matching expressions of astonishment.

Cersei leaves next, slamming the door behind her.  For once, she goes in a different direction than Joffrey does.

No one says a word as Tyrion covers the red face and collects the little body in his arms.  Bronn, Sansa, and Loras follow him out into the hallway. Loras is shaking badly. It is Sansa who speaks first:

"Something must be done about him.  And fast."

* * *

 It is the quietest week since the start of King Joffrey's reign.  Perhaps _ever_ in the castle.  The king does not leave his chambers, and according to the servants, he does not answer the door for meals and has demanded to be left alone.  If this were any other occasion, Tyrion would be singing with joy but this is desperately sad business.  Even though he despises his nephew, and cannot stand him as a king or a person, Tyrion's heart is still heavy when he ruminates upon what he must do.  

He has to murder Joff.

Loras wanted the task, not surprisingly.  Tyrion could see the desire in the man's eyes. In fact, he could almost see Joffrey's blood in Loras' teeth, the knight's taste for it was so strong.  But Sansa convinced him otherwise.  Margaery and Loras needed to stay innocent, away from this duty. As ignorant as possible. In fact, she said, Margaery must not even know of the plan.  _Sansa is more a Lannister than I,_ Tyrion had mused.

It has been three days since the princess was killed, and although a week ago Tyrion would have been thrilled to think he could kill his atrocious nephew, now he only feels sick.

 _Joff is still only a child,_ Tyrion reminds himself, _and a warped child at that._ Tyrion is an outcast with a gift for reading people and so he has witnessed how Joffrey's health has dimished over the years.  The bloody, stubbed nails and the patches of skin where golden curls used to be.  The false bravado, the painfully excessive drinking...

When he mentions this to Sansa, she looks at him as though he has presented her with a pile of manure for her Name Day gift. She will not hear of Joffrey's humanity, and Tyrion supposes he cannot blame her.  After all, he knows his mind is only playing tricks on him, making excuses, prolonging Joffrey's miserable existence.  And for what?  Joff would kill him in an instant, if he had the stomach, the brains.   _He is only a stupid child._

"You must do it," says his Tully-haired wife at the end of the fourth day, her eyes flickering, glassy and bright, in their dimly lit chambers. "Please, Tyrion.  For me?"

 _She still wants a heroic knight,_ Tyrion thinks as Sansa drifts off, whimpering and then crying out now and then as usual, beside him, her limbs and soft hair limp on the coverlet.  _And Gods help me, I want that for her, too._

* * *

On the fifth night, Tyrion enters the king's dark chambers.  The plan seems as flawless as it can possibly be:  Meryn and Boros have been tasked to guard the distressingly placid Margaery, and Bronn is guarding the king's quarters until Tyrion shouts the phrase that will bring him in to assist in the deed.  Loras is away from the castle. Sansa is keeping her watch on Cersei.  No plan is perfect but this one is close. Tyrion will catch Joffrey as he dreams, no doubt of perfect sons with gold-spun hair, and he will strangle the life out of the sleeping boy-king.

When he arrived, Bronn reported no movement in the room for hours.  _"The prick is sleeping,"_ Bronn assured Tyrion, and nodded. _  
_

But as soon as Tyrion walks through the doorway, he is instantly worried. Joff is not in his bed, nor is he in sight.  Next, he gags.  The room has an off smell about it and the summer breeze rolls the stench around. His eyes adjust, making use of the moonlight that flows in through the large window.  King Joffrey may not be not in view, but much debris is: shattered vases, overturned rugs, clothing strewn about.  Food rots on a tray near the large bed, but that is not the worst of it.  

Joffrey has not been bathing, it seems, and _Gods,_ how the chamber pot needs changing: that is very obvious.  _What would Cersei think?,_ Tyrion finds himself wondering dumbly.  He's often been jealous of Joffrey and Cersei, as he was once jealous of _Jaime_ and Cersei.   His nephew and sister have been alarmingly beautiful, stupid yet pretty, getting praises from Father and rewards for their gorgeousness. They have always seemed to make up for idiocy in their cruelty and social charms.  He wishes this was satisfying, seeing Joff living this way, this downward spiral, but he feels a pang of sadness still. 

He quickly forgets his thoughts and panics as a white blur bursts forth from the far corner of the room.  All at once, the perfect plan seems very wrong, very stupid, for here is Joffrey, naked and looking wild in the darkness.  His slender body is long and pallid and he looks completely insane, worse than Tyrion has ever seen him. Tyrion wants to speak, wants to scream for Bronn but his tongue gets tied within his mouth.

Joffrey's eyes shine, hollow and huge.  He looks like a young lion now more than ever, the tufts of what mane he has left standing in points. His body is young, awkward, sculpted in a way that looks wrong. His manhood bobs slightly as he moves toward the window, those nasty, rotten eyes fixed on Tyrion the whole time.

"Joff," Tyrion manages, sounding like a concerned uncle rather than a man with intentions to murder a boy of sixteen.  Despite himself, he walks closer.  _Idiot!  What will you do now?_  His head his spinning and calculating: _if I call for help, I can say I was checking up on him... Disturbing noises... Heard him crying...That's it...That will have to do--_

When Joffrey speaks, he does not appear to be talking to Tyrion.  He faces out the window and throws his voice there instead, addressing the black and blue sky. 

"The Gods have frowned down upon me," Joffrey says in a clear, loud voice, as if addressing his courtiers. He even gestures grandly with his left arm. And before Tyrion can answer, Joffrey steps upon the window ledge and then dives into the night.

"THE KING!" Tyrion shouts, and rushes to the gaping window on his stubby legs just as Bronn charges through the door.  Tyrion scrambles to see what he already knows is below and in understanding, Bronn helps him to the ledge, holding him steadily.

Joffrey lies naked and dead and bloody on the stones, almost in distasteful mimicry of his late infant daughter.

They shout that the king, the poor and tragic king, has done himself in.

 

* * *

 

It _does_ end up being the most perfect of circumstances, after all.  No one says it, but it brings a wave of relief.  Even Cersei smiles again, for King Joffrey is at peace. Tommen mourns his big brother but also paints artwork for Queen Margaery.  They will wed soon enough, though to Tyrion they look more like baby brother and older sister than husband and wife.  _That works well enough,_ he supposes to himself with a grim snort. 

Sansa finally sleeps soundlessly, and even better, she allows Tyrion to play the part of her shining knight.  _The imp who defeated a very bad king,_ she teases him in a low mutter.  It seems almost arousing to her, this gruesome death.  And so Tyrion lets her believe it was by his shove, his strength, his hands, his doing, that Joffrey is gone, although she should know better. But either she seems to believe that Tyrion triumphed and has finally slain her dragon, her demon- or she is simply playing a part. It does not matter because now she is a fair maiden to be rescued by a knight, and she finally lets him in. _Really_ lets him in. 

Though as Sansa lets her chivalrous husband lick her, kiss her, and ride her, he fixates guiltily upon the harsh truth.  He has done nothing special.  He is still ugly and deformed and disappointing.  For even if he _had_  shoved King Joffrey, a king is only a man and when a man falls, he breaks.


End file.
